Lazarus
by Sionnain
Summary: At night in his plastic prison, Magneto dreams of metal.


**Lazarus**

The first night he's in prison, he can't sleep. The light falls through the plastic walls and there is no place to hide, no way to make it dark. No way to forget where he is, how he's failed. He wishes they'd just killed him, left him up there to die. Even an inglorious fall to the bottom of the cold sea would be better than _this_. When he finally does manage to drift off to sleep, he dreams of metal.

He wakes on the hard plastic bed with his arm outstretched, fingers splayed. He is waiting for something to bend, to yield to his command as things do a thousand times every day—simple things, like opening doors or making coffee—and now nothing does.

He feels as if he has been stripped bare, like the plastic walls of his prison.

_Dead. Translucent. Useless._

There is music, which should be something of a comfort, but it maddens him because he knows he can't turn it off, can't control it. Maybe he'll get used to it. That thought is even _worse_.

For a long time he does nothing; he flexes his hands, over and over, fighting back the panic when everything remains still and static.

The yearning for metal is so sharp, he can taste it in his mouth.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

His feelings on seeing Charles are complicated. Part of him is yearning for some intelligent company, someone that is not the brutish guard or the less brutish-but-equally-vapid prison officials who visit to make sure he is not being _ill-treated_

They ask him if he needs anything. He asks for a pair of nail clippers with a straight face, wondering what they'll do. The next day, someone brings him a pair made of plastic. Magneto does not think government officials have a sense of humor, but maybe he's wrong.

So he will play a game of chess with Charles, and there is the momentary hope that his old friend has forgotten to remove some small item—cufflinks, perhaps, or a money clip—though it is impossible to carry anything past the guards. Even something as small as a paperclip will trip the sensors.

He doesn't want to escape as much as he wants to reassure himself he can still do it, can still manipulate the metal

_Without my power, what am I? A human. Worthless. Nothing._

His visit with Charles is fraught with unspoken tension. Charles says nothing to indicate he is pleased Magneto is still alive, and Magneto gives no indication that he is relieved to speak to another mutant. Both of these things are clearly written on their faces—Magneto does not need to be a telepath to know that. There is too much between them to speak of it, however, so they talk of other things.

Magneto inquires politely after the girl—he wonders if her survival is the only thing that kept him from a death sentence—and he sees the briefest flare of anger in Charles' eyes as he answers, "Rogue is fine."

There is some satisfaction in causing anger; if emotions are all he can manipulate, at least that is _something_. His rather petty pleasure does not last, however. As they wait in silence for the guard, Charles turns to him and murmurs, "I'm sorry, Erik." 

Charles knows, of course, that the punishment isn't so much the prison as the plastic. It is something only another mutant would understand, this inability to use one's power.

"Don't be," Magneto snaps, his voice thick with anger. "I won't be in here forever, Charles." _And perhaps one day someone shall make you feel as helpless as I do right now. And you will pardon me if I laud the day that it happens._

Magneto doesn't bother to hide his thoughts; Charles mouth tightens and he looks away, and they do not speak again.

As Charles and the guard disappear through the doors that lead from the facility, Magneto imagines the officials transferring Charles into his wheelchair—all that gleaming metal, polished and perfect.

His nails are digging into his palms and there's blood on his hands. A small tingle, just a little, because of the iron in his blood. It lasts for a second at the most—a brief flash on skin—and there is relief that he can still _feel_ metal. It is the smallest of comforts, but that is all he has left.

_For now._

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo 

He thinks he's dreaming, lying on his back, when he feels it. He's dreamt before of metal, but never has it felt like this, so…_real_, so tangible.

It starts off slow, like some half-forgotten sensory memory, starting at the base of his spine and traveling upwards. He can _taste_ it now, can hear the familiar hum low in his skull—

_Metal._

Not a lot, certainly, but _enough_. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. He feels alive again, reborn.


End file.
